Just Duffy

by Robin Jenkins

  He clung to her. He wanted this love-making as it was called, this ultimate defilement, this escape from self, to go on forever.

  ‘O.K.’ she said. With determination this time, she held him firm, heaved her strong hips, and soon brought him ruthlessly to climax.

  His groan of despair she took to be of pleasure and appreciation.

  ‘It was good,’ she said, ‘but it’ll be better in bed. Go and get rid of whoever’s ringing that fucking bell. See you soon.’

  She stepped out of the bath, seized a towel, and ran towards the bedroom.

  He felt as exhausted as he had been beside Crosbie’s body. He put on his dressing-gown. It must be Cooley at the door. No one else would ring with such persistence. She had come back, afraid that without her to restrain him he would go too far. ‘You’ll end up murdering somebody.’

  Only Cooley could help him now.

  It was Mrs Munro wearing a black dress that smelled of moth balls. She was peevish and not quite sober. She had just suffered a severe disappointment in love. For years she had had a little affair going with Andy Logan, with occasional nookie in the back room of his shop in Wallace Street, amidst rolls of paper and the smell of paint, after Bingo. That evening he had made it all too plain, by ignoring her ogles of allurement, that she was no longer on his list. As a consequence when she shuffled on sore feet into Duffy’s house she was in a mood of vindictive virtuousness.

  ‘I can see I’m too late,’ she cried. She pulled open his dressing-gown and revealed his spent state. ‘Look at that. The one thing you had in your favour was your innocence and now you’ve lost it. Where is she? She didn’t think I saw her but I did. Her mother’s got seven others besides her and her father’s a scrounger who hasn’t worked for years. He comes into The Curly Lamb (that’s the pub where Mr Munro’s captain of the domino team) and cadges drinks. How could I settle down to watching television knowing that you were being raped, for that I’m sure is what it amounted to. First it was that brazen bitch Cooley and now this trollop McGowan who, if what I hear is right, opens her legs to men of seventy and boys of fourteen alike. Why is your hair wet? What’s been going on? Where is she?’

  She looked in the living-room, then in the bathroom, and finally in the bedroom. What she saw there made her shriek. Molly, naked, was seated on the bed clipping her toe-nails. The red nightgown was spread out ready to be put on. She had brushed her hair, put on powder and lipstick, and sprinkled herself with scent.

  Mrs Munro was flabbergasted by those bridal preparations. ‘You impudent besom!’ she cried.

  Molly looked up, astonished. ‘Who’s this fat cow?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll fat cow you! Who gave you permission to come into this house and use it as if it was your own?’

  Molly was on her dignity. ‘Duffy did. Tell her, Duffy.’

  ‘You know this boy’s not right in the head. Neither are you, from all accounts, but you’ve got loads of slyness to make up for it. Look, your face is full of it.’ But it was Molly’s breasts that Mrs Munro found most provoking. They were too insolent in their jutting firmness (Mrs Munro’s own without support sagged to her navel) too fresh and white (not like Mrs Munro’s the colour of old paste) and too round.

  Molly had encountered boozy jealous women before. ‘Mrs, you’re drunk,’ she said tolerantly. ‘Duffy, get rid of her, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘How dare you use such language in my presence!’ cried Mrs Munro. ‘How dare you call me drunk!’ She then saw the tattoo on Molly’s belly. ‘In the name of God what’s that?’

  ‘It’s a tattoo.’

  ‘I know it’s a tattoo, but what does it say?’

  ‘It says LOVE. It should have been MAKE LOVE NOT WAR but it would have cost too much.’ She smiled, prepared to be neighbourly. ‘You don’t have to tell his mother. Duffy and me are going to get married. Aren’t we, honey?’

  She turned her back then, modestly, to pick up the nightgown and put it on.

  Mrs Munro could not resist. Though her feet were killing her she rushed forward and gave that big soft white backside a resounding skelp. ‘Go and put your clothes on,’ she cried, ‘and get out of this house before I send for the police.’

  Molly was more affronted than hurt. She rebuked Duffy. ‘Are you going to stand there like a dummy and let her hit your sweetheart?’

  Mrs Munro remembered that there was a dead man and a grieving widow upstairs. ‘Keep your voice down,’ she said. ‘There’s death in the building.’

  ‘You’re the one, Mrs, that’s doing all the shouting. Me and Duffy were minding our own business, quiet as mice, bothering nobody, and you come in and start yelling your head off.’

  ‘While his mother’s away I’m taking her place. I’m Mrs Munro, her next-door neighbour. Get dressed and leave.’

  ‘I’ll leave if Duffy wants me to leave, and not because you tell me to.’

  ‘Look at him. He’s lost what wits he had. God knows what damage you’ve done him, girl. A boy so simple he hardly knew the difference between men and women, I’m referring to sex, and you come at him with those bosoms and that behind. Is it any wonder he’s struck dumb? I don’t have to ask what business it was you were minding. I had a look at his business when I came in. Poor Duffy. There’s no hope for you now.’

  ‘He wanted it as much as me,’ said Molly. ‘He was desperate for it. If you ask me he needed it.’

  ‘What man or boy offered that body of yours wouldn’t be desperate for it?’ asked Mrs Munro, with a sigh. Except my Alec, she thought bitterly: he’d ask you if you played dominoes.

  Molly appreciated the compliment. ‘I’m going to spend the night: to keep him company. To tell you the truth, I’m looking forward to a good night’s sleep, for a change. At home I’ve to sleep with two of my sisters; sometimes three, for wee Jessie crawls in too.’

  As one of a big family herself, brought up in a room-and-kitchen, Mrs Munro sympathised. She sat on the bed: her feet were painful. She wondered if it would rouse Alec to perform his marital duties more often if she had LOVE tattoo’d on her belly. Unfortunately it would never be seen in the rolls of fat. This girl, she had to admit, had an enticing body. If she had been a man herself she would have been enticed. The randiness she had felt two hours ago when Andy, with his smart patter and artist’s bow-tie, had come into her house now returned. But Andy was lost to her forever. There was no one else she could think of, available and willing to assuage her. There was young Bruce Stuart, only twenty-one and in his sexual prime, able to serve ten women without losing power or interest. He would be able to make it last, too, unlike Alec with whom it was all over before she could say double-six. Billy of course couldn’t be importuned: not because he was a neighbour’s husband but because he would feel insulted.

  She sighed again. ‘Maybe you’re right, maybe it was what he needed, to make him grow up, God help him.’

  Molly had put on the nightgown. It was too tight across the chest and buttocks. Mrs Munro gave it a helpful tug.

  ‘Duffy,’ she said, ‘Would you like to get me a wee whisky? Not all that wee. Glenmorangie, that your mother keeps for special visitors. No water.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Molly. ‘I know where the whisky’s kept.’ She went out, with much waggling of her bottom.

  ‘It’s true, the lassie’s never had much of a chance,’ said Mrs Munro. ‘Duffy, if I interrupted your education, I’m sorry. That’s what Mr Munro told me I would be doing. It was on the tip of my tongue to say he had a lot to learn himself. What am I to do, Duffy? I know what your mother would want me to do. She’d want me to kick her down the stairs. But your mother’s enjoying herself, isn’t she, with a man in her bed that’s not thinking of dominoes. So if you can keep a secret so maybe can I. Would you like her to stay the night?’

  He nodded. He could not bear to spend the night alone. His monsters, as Cooley had called them, were on the prowl.

  Mrs Munro had to laugh. ‘Aren’t you the young devil?’

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nbsp; Molly came in with the whisky. ‘Why is he a young devil, Mrs Munro?’

  ‘He wants you to stay the night. My God, lassie, this is a real stotter. Maybe you should go and pour some of it back.’

  ‘That’s all that was left.’

  ‘Well, in that case I might as well finish it off. Here’s to young love.’ She took a generous sip.

  ‘Why is he a devil because he wants me to stay?’ asked Molly, earnestly. ‘We’d be doing no harm.’

  ‘Halleluijah to that, lassie. It’s just that everybody, me included, was thinking he’s a softie, left out of things, a bit backward – no offence, Duffy – and what does he get up to the minute his mother’s back’s turned? First it was that Helen Cooley he had staying with him.’

  ‘He didn’t sleep with Cooley,’ said Molly. ‘She’s got the pox. I’ve never had anything like that. I’m very careful.’

  ‘You’re very lucky, more like. He swears he didn’t sleep with her, though we don’t mean sleeping, do we?’ Then he’s invited you, and on Tuesday night guess what? He’s to play badminton with guess who? Margaret Porteous, her whose mother owns the pottery.’

  This quick transition from a rival with pox to one that played badminton had Molly frowning. She had no gum in her mouth but champed as if she did.

  ‘He doesn’t know Margaret Porteous.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so myself but she was at his door earlier today leaving a message that she would see him at the badminton on Tuesday.’

  ‘How can he play badminton? He hasn’t got a racket.’

  ‘I gave him one. I bought it at a jumble sale years ago.’

  ‘Porteous and her crowd will just laugh at him.’

  ‘Maybe, but she didn’t strike me as the kind who’d laugh at somebody with a misfortune.’

  Mrs Munro had drunk the whisky too quickly. She rose and handed the empty glass to Molly. ‘Jack Ralston used to say Duffy had the knack of keeping quiet. Hasn’t he just? He’s not uttered a word since I came in.’

  ‘He doesn’t speak much,’ admitted Molly.

  Mrs Munro indicated that she wanted Molly to see her out.

  At the door she said: ‘He seems to have something on his mind. Do you think he’s worrying about his mother?’

  Molly smirked. ‘He’s got me on his mind.’

  ‘That could be it. I’m wondering if you’re not too much for him.’

  ‘I’ll see he takes it easy.’

  ‘You do that. Good-night.’

  Mrs Munro shuffled across the landing into her own house, resolved to claim her rights. If Alec was still reading the News of the World or the Sunday Post she would take it from him, without apology. She would make it very clear she wanted to be made love to. If necessary she would strip naked in front of him. If he said wait till bed-time she would remind him any time was bed-time and any place was a bed for the purposes of love. She might even challenge him to do it from the back as, it seemed, Billy Stuart did now that Agnes was so big-bellied. However it was done it would be beautiful, even if her belly was rolls of fat and his legs ropes of varicose veins. To help her to see it as beautiful she would imagine Molly and Duffy doing it, the girl with her splendid body and the boy so young and handsome (his mind needn’t come into it).

  Before going back to the bedroom Molly took the opportunity to use the toilet again and also to satisfy herself that Duffy hadn’t passed Cooley’s pox on to her. Her private parts were as rosy and healthy as ever, and in very good working order.

  The only blemish on her happiness was the mysterious intrusion of Margaret Porteous. She would have to get Duffy to tell her about this invitation to play badminton on Tuesday. In any case she had nothing to worry about. Playing badminton couldn’t be compared with making love, could it?

  He was still where she had left him, against the wall, except that he wasn’t standing but crouching. He was making whimpering noises. She was reminded of a collie pup her family once had. It had cowered like this, whimpering, when it had made a mess and knew it was going to get its nose rubbed in it.

  She crouched beside him. He didn’t seem to see her. He was shivering. She touched him. He was cold. Yet the room was warm.

  ‘What’s the matter, honey?’ she asked. ‘She’s not going to tell your mother. What if she did? We’re going to get married, aren’t we?’

  He didn’t seem to hear her either. She couldn’t help grinning. She’d never had this effect on anybody before.

  ‘Is it because she told me about Margaret Porteous? Don’t be daft. I couldn’t be jealous of her. She’s not in our class, Duffy. She thinks you and me are common as shit.’

  She began to feel worried. Maybe Cathie had been right and making love to a woman was dangerous for him: some men were like that, Cathie had said. But he had been willing, hadn’t he? She had had to tell him to take it easy. He had wanted it to go on all night.

  ‘Say something, Duffy, for Christ’s sake.’

  But he said nothing.

  Perhaps he took fits. She wouldn’t like it if any of her kids took fits. She imagined that little boy with the red hair taking a fit like this, unable to see or hear or speak.

  ‘I didn’t know you took fits, Duffy.’

  In Dirty Chuck’s girls had often discussed his peculiar backwardness. Nobody had ever suggested it could be because he took fits.

  ‘Is there any medicine you take for it?’

  Apprehensively she took his hand and with it rubbed her warm breast. It had no effect. She might as well have been made of wood. She wondered if she should go and bring Mrs Munro.

  ‘I don’t know what the hell to do, Duffy.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  On Tuesday morning when Mrs Crosbie crept meekly into Lightburn Police Station to report that her boy Johnny was missing she was received with courtesy and kindness, though everybody she spoke to thought privately that if the young bastard never turned up she would be a lot better-off. She was passed on to Detective-Sergeant McLeod who had been looking for Crosbie to question him in connection with the defiling of the hymn-books. In the station as in the town itself there had been some hilarity over that escapade: none of the victims was all that popular. McLeod, however, as a Free Kirk adherent, had seen nothing funny or fitting in what he kept calling a sacrilege.

  Interviewing Mrs Crosbie he was kindly and patient.

  ‘Is he in the habit of not coming home?’ he asked.

  ‘For one night sometimes, never for two.’

  In a hat shaped like a chamber-pot, with artificial flowers round its brim, she represented, he thought, truth, far better than marble statues he had seen, of beautiful young women with bare bosoms and laurels in their hair. She would not knowingly tell a lie to save her own life or, what was more precious to her (such was the miracle of motherhood) her worthless son’s.

  ‘You see, Mr McLeod, Johnny and his father have never got on. Mr Crosbie is a very proud man. He thinks Johnny has brought shame on him.’

  Well, to be fair, so he has, thought McLeod.

  ‘He’s not religious but he believes that Johnny is a judgment on him.’

  McLeod belonged to a church that saw judgments everywhere.

  ‘Johnny has a tumour on his brain.’ She said it so humbly that at first McLeod didn’t grasp its enormity.

  ‘Did you say a tumour?’

  ‘Yes.’

  But there were tumours and tumours. Flora had had one, about five years ago, in her uterus. Thank God it had not been malignant and had been cut out with no harmful consequence. The brain was a trickier area.

  ‘Is he receiving medical attention?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Dr Telfer’s our doctor. He’s been very attentive. But nothing can be done. It is malignant and it can’t be operated on.’

  McLeod was stunned. His villain, before his very eyes, had been turned into a victim, deserving pity.

  ‘It gives him terrible headaches. That is why he does such crazy things. Sometimes he goes blind.�
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  ‘I must say, Mrs Crosbie, I didn’t know that about your boy.’

  ‘It’s been my fault, Mr McLeod. I’ve told everybody that one day he would be cured. I said it because I hoped it was true, only I knew it wasn’t.’

  McLeod didn’t know how to say it. He coughed instead.

  She understood. ‘Any time.’

  So he could be lying somewhere dead.

  ‘Have you any idea where he might have gone, Mrs Crosbie?’

  She began to haver. ‘He often says he would like to see the world. He looks at maps a lot.’

  McLeod himself had no such wish. Two summers ago he had gone on holiday to the Costa Del Sol. He had not enjoyed it. It had not been his idea of pleasure and relaxation to sit on a hot beach surrounded by women with bare breasts. Given the choice of retiring to Barbados or Skye he’d choose the island of rain and mists any day. But really anywhere would do, so long as you did not have a tumour in your brain.

  ‘He keeps saying he’d like to see London.’

  ‘Is that so?’ McLeod himself had no inclination to visit that sinful and alien capital.

  ‘He could be lying dead somewhere,’ she said, ‘here in Lightburn.’

  So he could, if the tumour had burst, if that was what tumours did.

  ‘Well, Mrs Crosbie, I assure you we’ll do everything we can to find him for you. It’s a bit early yet to classify him as an officially missing person but if he doesn’t turn up in a day or two we’ll put out a nation-wide appeal. His description will be given to every police station in the country.’